scars like train tracks on her arms
by tomlinsons
Summary: Her entire array of senses make her painfully aware of the imperfections etched on her skin.


**scars like train tracks on her arms**, lavender brown; lavender brown/megan jones, PG-13. _Her entire array of senses make her painfully aware of the imperfections etched on her skin._

She wants to cut her hair.

It feels constricting and overwhelming and overbearing and it's not her anymore. It reminds her of bad days and bad memories. She hates it.

Lavender spends a week and a half in the Creature Induced Injuries ward in St. Mungo's. With the number of injured and wounded (and dead, but people don't mention this), she can't stay longer than the week and a half she does. They only allotted a week for Lavender Brown, but on the last day, her wounds - scars slashed across her stomach, starting under her ribcage diagonally across to her hip; scars running down the length of her left arm, bristling and rough - opened back up, setting the healing process back some steps. The slashes on the left side of her collarbone remain closed, but to be safe, they take precautions there as well. A few days later, when the Healers judge her to be well enough to transport back to Hogwarts, she finds herself in the Hospital Wing, surrounded by a bustle of Mediwizards and Healers, and of course, Madame Pomfrey.

The Hospital Wing has turned into a temporary St. Mungo's, receiving those who are injured less seriously and/or recovering more easily. Lavender hates it. When she was at St. Mungo's, she was left relatively alone, only interrupted at scheduled hours. She prefers it that way. It's odd because before this (_all this, everything, Fenrir Greyback, the Battle at Hogwarts, the Carrows_), there was nothing she loved or wanted more than to be around people. But of course, she was pretty then, wasn't she? She was young and soft and beautiful and illuminating; she has never felt farther away from those adjectives as she does now, hidden behind the half-shut curtains, voices hushed to conceal their whispered words about her. She hates it. She hates it but she can't raise her voice to tell them to shut up, to leave her alone, to stop _talking_ about her like she isn't there, to just _go away_. But she doesn't feel up to doing anything; her arms stay draped over the blanket, her eyes shut to avoid seeing, her entire array of senses making her painfully aware of the imperfections made so blatantly obvious.

She doesn't see the first flow of visitors. Some stay and some go, but she doesn't talk to them.

The second flow of visitors consist of those who feel guilty not paying her a visit while they're visiting other people in the Hospital Wing.

The third flow of visitors are the first flow of visitors, back again, determined to coax more than weary smiles and stiff nods out of Lavender. On Wednesday, it's Megan's turn, her shoulders slumped resignedly, although she tries to hide it, her eyes without the same enthusiastic spark (_isn't that the same story for everyone?_), but a bright, full-force smile as she approaches the bed.

"Hi," she says first, her smile still in place, one hand clutching the other as if she is working out her worries.

Lavender must be feeling better, or she must be feeling guilty, or she must be _something_, because she turns to Megan and tells her hello. She doesn't turn away.

Megan's hand reaches to touch Lavender's, but stops in the middle, dropping back down. She waits a few more seconds before doing it again, this time actually reaching forward and clasping her hand around Lavender's lightly and giving it a soft squeeze. Lavender stares at Megan, her lips turning up into a small smile before she bites her lip to stop herself from crying in front of her. She already hates being here, not able to do anything, but she'd hate it even more if she started crying here too.

Her hand squeeze is not as emphatic (as much as a soft squeeze can be) as Megan's, but there's no mistaking the effort she makes to return the favour. Megan's thumb brushes reassuring patterns on her skin and for two talkative, excitable girls, the silence is actually comforting. They don't need to exchange words because what words can convey the magnitude of everything they've lost?

(_I'm sorry this happened -_

_I'm sorry it turned out this way -_

_- I wish I could do something_

_Is there anything I can do?_)

Instead, Megan Jones, being Megan Jones, willingly sits there with Lavender, silence and all, and when she reaches up to brush away the strands of hair that are covering Lavender's neck, she takes in the slight flinch.

Lavender looks embarrassed, the shame of the marks etched on her skin overpowering her, and she pulls her hand back to cover it back up. "Sorry," she mumbles, the words quiet and forlorn, averting eye contact with Megan.

Megan stares sadly at her before reaching her hand out to brush away the tendrils of hair falling into Lavender's eyes, and leans down, her lips brushing Lavender's cheek for a brief second before floating to the girl's lips. It is gentle and delicate, fragile and un-insistent, and underneath it all, she feels Lavender smile slightly (just slightly) before kissing back.

When she moves back, the hair that covers up Lavender's scars on her neck has fallen back, leaving them uncovered, unshielded.

"I'm going to cut my hair," Lavender says firmly but quietly, with a hint of pride, a drop of resolve, and an entirety of the same Gryffindor stubbornness that has always been evident in her.

Megan doesn't miss a beat. "You'll look beautiful."


End file.
